"No sweat. What's my cut of the take?"

"First there has to be a take, then I'll let you know what you're in for. Settle for a cup of coffee for now?"

"Sounds like you're going to give it to me again, Louis. Knock it off. You need to take people's money."

"You're such a purist. Darkest blend black?"

Alex looked at the dozen large jars of coffee beans arranged neatly on the counter. "Yeah, I really liked that last time. What do you call it again?"

"Heart of Darkness. I'll get it."

Alex took a seat near the window. Cool morning air mixed with the aromas of coffee, wood, and old books. Alex relaxed and felt at ease. Maybe Ben's not making it wouldn't be all that bad. We all need our own space, she thought.

Louis arrived with two steaming ceramic mugs. "If I ever get successful enough that I start running people in and out of here with Styrofoam cups, just kill me."

"Yeah. In a place like this that would be a disappointment. My husband was going to join me, but he's stuck at work."

"Then I guess you're stuck with me."

"Careful. I might just talk your ear off again."

"How's your dad?" Louis asked. "Did you see him yesterday like you planned?"

"Yeah, I got to spend an hour with him. He's doing all right. Still struggling with motor skills, speech, that sort of thing."

Alex paused to sip the hot coffee and tried to remember the last time Ben even asked about her father. "I'm enjoying the book. I've been reading it to him. He loved ... I mean he loves Cather. He actually named me after Alexandra Bergson in O Pioneers! I think it's good therapy for him."

"The power of great literature, I guess," Louis said.

They talked for an hour, only occasionally interrupted by a customer coming in for coffee.

"I wish Ben could have made it today," Louis said at one point. "I was hoping that might get some of the local cops to start coming in. Maybe he could put in a good word for me? It'd be good for business to see cop cars out front."

"Yeah, that could work, I guess." Alex found herself saying more than she'd intended. "Then again, the picture at the PD isn't all that rosy right now. If you're thinking it's like one big happy family of heroic cops, that ain't happening."

"You mean it's not like TV?"

Alex smiled. "Not quite. A lot of cops were very loyal to my dad, but since his sudden retirement, there's been a real power shift. Now there's a new guy in charge, and from what Ben has told me, the new chief is not all that thrilled about the old boss's son-in-law hanging around watching his every move. Apparently nobody is. It's a pretty lousy work environment right now."

"How are you and Ben holding up?"

This wasn't the first time Louis had impressed Alex with his intuition. More than once he had keyed right in on the real issue, no matter what her words said on the surface.

"It's been tough, but we're hanging in there."

She was about to say more when a woman called out, "Excuse me. Does one of you work here or what?"

Several women in leotards and sweatshirts were standing at the counter. Alex blinked, wondering how she had missed their entrance. Looking at the group, she was suddenly self-conscious of her jeans, hoodie, and ball cap. Alex noticed they all had perfect makeup and manicures. Forget the outfits-these chicks have no plans to work out.

Louis looked at Alex with an apology in his eyes and touched her lightly on the shoulder. "Back in a minute, okay?"

He strode to the counter and quickly engaged the group, who all seemed to be around twenty-five. Alex listened as each woman ordered some foamy, sugar-laden concoction, clearly flirting with Louis the whole time. One of the group, Alex guessed she was somewhere around legal age, ordered a caramel triple-shot skinny something or other and practically undressed Louis with her eyes. Louis glanced at Alex and tried to smile an apology, but Alex couldn't deny she was put off by the noisy intrusion and equally pissed that he was obviously enjoying the women's attention.

When he turned away, Alex took the opportunity to leave. On the sidewalk she quickened her pace, fumbling for her keys. Unlocking the door of the eight-year-old family minivan, she tossed her purse inside, slid into the driver's seat, and slammed the door. She caught a look at herself in the rearview mirror, her face flushed, and abruptly realized that she was experiencing the sudden flood of an emotion she hadn't felt in a long time.

There was no denying what it was.

Jealousy.

TWELVE.

Alex sat in the sunroom of Newberg Convalescent and read silently while her father dozed in his wheelchair nearby. The episode at the coffeehouse had thrown her off a bit until she reminded herself that when she and Ben were good, they were very good. We'll get it back, she thought. One way or another. She remembered Ben's comments about moving to Fresno. How maybe he would even go without her. She pushed the thoughts out of her head. Ben would never leave me, she told herself.

She rocked the porch swing back and forth with her stocking foot, comforted by the warmth of the sun and her father's long, steady breaths. She watched a pair of tundra swans break the glassy surface of the nearby pond as they glided in for a spectacular landing. Any sound made by the graceful couple was covered by the wind passing through the blooming branches of the hemlock and maple trees. Welcome home, she thought to herself. It looked as though spring had arrived in earnest, and in Wisconsin, that was everyone's favorite time of the year.

Newberg Convalescent was a first-rate medical rehabilitation center, and she and Ben had the debt to prove it. The family had adjusted to make the necessary sacrifices, but how much longer could they keep it up?

Alex looked at the man sleeping peacefully beside her. She knew Ben was right that substantial recovery seemed unlikely. In four months' time her father had gone from larger-than-life local hero to slobbering invalid tucked away and forgotten in an old folks' home.

"Wake up, Papa."

The old man stirred, and before he was fully awake, grunted in an attempt to speak. Alex knew her father was in there-his soul, his warrior spirit trapped inside a worn shell of thin skin and brittle bones. If he could speak, he would not hesitate to let Alex know her place was by his side.

"I have to go, Papa. Ben and Jake will be home soon."

The old man managed a scoff at the mention of her husband's name.

"Stop it, Papa. Ben is a good man and you know it. You need to remember he is my husband and Jake's father."

Alex knew the pain she saw in his eyes had begun with her sudden departure for California and extended absence. A pain that had deepened with a return that came only after public humiliation. To Lars, it was all Ben's fault, and when the old man assigned blame it wasn't something he was quick to take away. Especially when he felt the family had been dishonored.

"Ben loves me, Papa. And I love him. You need to understand how much he means to me and to Jake."

Another, less intense grunt and Lars looked away. His wordless method of saying he wanted to change the subject.

Lars Norgaard had always been a strong, prideful man. Robbed of his commanding voice, these days he rarely attempted to say anything. Alex assumed his grunting and slobbering humiliated him and that he preferred to suffer in silence. Sometimes she found him too proud for his own good.

"You stay out here. The sun is beautiful today. Enjoy the early spring. Shall I leave the book? Maybe one of the nurses can read to you later."

He shook his head vigorously, and Alex got his meaning. The newspaper was one thing, but books like these were family.

"Okay. I'll bring it tomorrow." Alex bent down close. "Say good-bye now, Papa."

He looked at her, his milky eyes filled with love, but made no effort to speak.

"Papa, I know you can do it. Promise me you'll do your exercises today. Practice your sounds, okay?" Still nothing but a determined expression Alex knew meant there were parts of his life he would still control.

"I love you and I know how much you love me. This weekend I want you to come to the house, okay? See Ben and Jake. We'd all like that."

Lars looked away. His visits outside the care home were rare and had to be carefully orchestrated. Alex knew her father resented the complexity of the arrangements. Wheelchairs, ramps, special foods. It was an endless list of indignities, and Alex was certain if Lars had the ability, he would end his life tonight and be done with it. In that way she was thankful for his physical limitations.

Alex kissed her father wistfully on the cheek, thinking again of the strength he once possessed. She lingered another moment before leaving him alone in the afternoon sunlight, trapped in the prison of a broken body and a mind cursed with memories of the man he used to be.

THIRTEEN.

The muscle car caught six inches of air as it hauled into the lot crowded with black-and-whites. Half a dozen cops looked up at the sound of the downshifting engine, but their faces registered only mild annoyance. Everyone had grown familiar with the car and its driver's antics. McKenzie swung hard into an open spot, almost clipping a motorcycle cop, who made an abrupt fishtail stop to avoid the collision. The helmet head gave a blast of his siren and extended the middle finger of a leather-gloved hand.

McKenzie gave a dismissive wave. What some traffic cop might think of him didn't matter a damn bit. McKenzie tapped his jacket pocket. It was time for his regular meeting with the boss.

McKenzie strutted through the building and headed straight to the chief's office, a swagger in his step. He entered the executive suites and passed the desk of Bernice Erickson. When she picked up the phone as if she intended to inform the chief of his arrival, McKenzie waved her off.

"Don't bother, sweetie, he's expecting me."

Bernice scowled at the term but put the phone down and returned to her work. McKenzie smiled with the knowledge that only certain individuals enjoyed unfettered access to the standoffish new chief, and he was one of them. As was customary with the man, the door to Jorgensen's office was closed. McKenzie gave a light knock then went in, reclosing the door behind him.

Jorgensen was enjoying his rise to power with a fat Cuban Punch Corona. The chief motioned to a box of twenty-five on his desk. McKenzie made his selection, then rolled the cigar under his nose for a moment before leaning in and allowing Jorgensen to blaze him up. Lars Norgaard's long-standing enforcement of a smoke-free environment was gone; the two men sat in silence, enjoying the elite cigars.

Walter Jorgensen had been with Newberg PD as long as old man Norgaard himself. The two crusty old vets had come up through the ranks together, rivals of a sort. Where Lars Norgaard might bend a rule or two in order to catch a crook, McKenzie knew that Jorgensen was more about looking out for his own self-interest. That was why McKenzie had fallen in with Jorgensen at the start of his own career, recognizing it was Jorgensen that would get him what he wanted.

Over the years, there had even been rumor of some major confiscated dealer swag that had somehow disappeared off the department evidence logs. Jorgensen had never been in the middle of any inquiries, but you could always find him on the edges.

When Norgaard and Jorgensen competed for the job of chief of police and Norgaard won, it was assumed Jorgensen would follow the law enforcement tradition that ensured smooth operations and retire. Instead, Jorgensen not only remained, but Norgaard surprised everyone by naming Jorgensen his number two in a public gesture of conciliation.

Over time, an uneasy tension had developed between the two men. The day Norgaard stroked out, Jorgensen wasted no time in taking over department operations. Now, with his hands firmly on the department controls, Jorgensen and McKenzie had established what Jorgensen liked to call a "mutually beneficial arrangement." When Jorgensen finally spoke, the office was blue with smoke.

"Sawyer dropped by this morning. Gotta give him credit, the boy's got a sac. Struts right into my office with no more than a by-your-leave. Had some wild-ass idea about moving all you dicks around to new assignments. Your name came up. He's thinking you've been in the dope game long enough. He also tells me you pretty much went off on his ass in his office. Says you were insubordinate as hell. He figures on doing something about it. He seemed pretty fired up."

McKenzie felt gut punched. This was not what he had expected and he jumped to defend himself.

"Look, Chief, there's no need to-"

"Take it easy, Detective." Jorgensen raised his hand, then gave McKenzie a long, assessing look through the clouds. The chief took a hard pull on his Cuban, then went on. "I gave it some thought, but it seems to me you got a good handle on things. I told Sawyer to make whatever other changes he wanted, but I didn't see any reason to pull you off the narc detail. You're safe. For now. Far as any issues of improper conduct, consider yourself admonished."

Jorgensen paused to work the cigar, leaving the scent of wet leather in the air. McKenzie waited for the other shoe to drop. At some point it always did. Sure enough, Jorgensen wasn't done.

"Of course, you know I worked a bit of narcotics in my day. I've got a pretty good understanding of how a narc needs to be given a great deal of independence. Can't be tied down with a bunch of rules and regulations. You need to be able to motivate all those fine citizens who want to be sure that Newberg's contribution to the war on drugs is effectively waged ... properly financed, if you know what I mean. How are things going in that area, Detective?"

McKenzie stared back, not surprised. Jorgensen never just came out with it. He always watched every word, but McKenzie understood. He pulled a thick envelope from his inside jacket pocket and tossed it onto the chief's desk.

"Just so happens some business-minded folks approached me today. Told me they wanted to make a contribution to the department's scholarship fund. You're still handling that program, right, Chief?"

Jorgensen didn't flinch, just stared back. He shifted in his Italian leather chair and propped his Bruno Magli shoes on the mahogany desk he had bought a month after taking over from Norgaard. For a large man-McKenzie figured him to be all of two eighty-Jorgensen carried himself with ease. He never wore the official blue uniform that Norgaard had been famous for, preferring conservative designer suits tailored for his large frame. Today he wore a starched white button-down shirt and a pin-striped charcoal gray vest; a SIG Sauer 9mm was neatly tucked against his body in a custom-made leather shoulder rig. His deep burgundy tie was finished with a perfect Windsor. Jorgensen picked up the envelope and took a look inside, nodding his massive bald head as he fingered through the cash. The envelope disappeared into a desk drawer.

"I'll see to it, Doyle. You be sure to extend the thanks of the department." Jorgensen gave McKenzie a sharp stare. "But this seems a little thin. You might want to shake that tree a little harder next time around."

McKenzie nodded in acknowledgment. Jorgensen had a real impact on the bottom line, but McKenzie told himself it was worth it. Now that he was finally out from under Norgaard's microscope, he could get down to some serious earning. Better yet, he could tell Sawyer to go fuck himself. Yep. Under the new administration, business was good.

Jorgensen sat up, his body language making it clear he was changing the subject. "We need to talk."

McKenzie picked up on the serious tone and immediately thought of the incident with Tyrone. Jorgensen couldn't know about that, could he? The guy had his finger on the pulse, for sure, but there was no way he could be up on that.

"Bill Petite's been hooked for murder up in Hayward. You know about the case?"

"Bill Petite? Name rings a bell, Chief, but I can't say as I can place it right offhand. Who is he?"

Jorgensen sounded less than pleased. "So you're telling me you haven't heard anything about it? I would think that as the department narcotics detective, you would stay up on major cases."

"Damn, Chief," McKenzie said, hating that he was already on the defensive, "Hayward is three hundred miles from here. Why would I know about the local stuff up there? I got plenty to work on right here in Newberg, you know what I mean?" He shot a look to the desk drawer, trying to remind Jorgensen of his primary concerns.

Jorgensen ignored him and began to lay things out. "Bill Petite served three terms as the district attorney of Florence County. He left the DA's office quite a few years back, relocated to Hayward, and went into private practice. Specialized in personal injury and medical malpractice. A real ambulance chaser. It's been seven or eight years. He made himself a fortune torturing doctors, cops, anyone with deep pockets."

At McKenzie's blank look of ignorance, Jorgensen appeared frustrated but went on. "Petite had a lady friend on the side. Couple of months ago, it got ugly. Seems he shot her in her own kitchen. Shot her dead." Jorgensen's tone changed as he looked hard at McKenzie. "At least that's how it would appear to the uninformed populace."

"You never know about a man, Chief. I don't suppose he did us all a favor and killed another lawyer, did he?" McKenzie tried to humor the man. "You know what it's called when one lawyer kills another lawyer?"

Jorgensen said nothing, just looked at McKenzie and waited.

"A good start." McKenzie laughed, pleased at his own stale joke. Jorgensen didn't even twitch a lip in laughter.

"You probably don't know about Lipinski either, is that right?"

McKenzie cocked his head. "Henry Lipinski? What about him?"

Oh, yeah. McKenzie knew Lipinski. The man was a law enforcement legend. Lipinski had spent more than thirty years as the elected sheriff of Florence County, along the Wisconsin-Michigan border, well known as an outdoorsman's paradise. The Nicolet National Forest covered over a million acres of unspoiled beauty, attracting tens of thousands of hunters, campers, and other visitors every year. Less famously but more important in the law enforcement world, the Nicolet Forest was also home to the most expansive and profitable marijuana crops in the entire Midwest. With fewer than five thousand permanent souls in the entire county, a grow could cover hundreds of acres and go undetected for a generation.

But nothing got past Sheriff Henry Lipinski. Rumor was no plant ever grew to be more than six inches tall without Lipinski's consent. Lipinski was said to have ruled over one of the largest marijuana empires in all of rural America. College students throughout Wisconsin, Minnesota, Michigan, and beyond had a greatly enhanced scholastic experience because of his organization and distribution skills. Lipinski eventually retired and laundered all his ill-gotten earnings through a used car dealership with outlets in sixteen counties. Word was he had walked away from all the shady stuff and gone legit. To McKenzie, Lipinski was a real law enforcement success story.

"He's sitting in Chippewa County lockup," Jorgensen said. "Got hooked up over the weekend for distribution of kiddie porn. Word has it the Feds are on the case. They'll be picking him up next week. He's looking at twenty-five years minimum."

"Shit," McKenzie said. "That'll be a hard row for a career cop. I sure as hell wouldn't want to carry that water. But I gotta tell ya, that guy always struck me as a bit of a pervert."

Jorgensen disagreed. "I don't see it. He's about as dense as a block of wood, but I can't figure Henry getting off on kids."

McKenzie shifted in his seat, his mind now turning. "Okay, boss. Two players from Florence hit the pit. You got my attention. What are you worried about?"

The look from Jorgensen was less than complimentary. "Jesus, Detective. Allow me to spell it out for you."